Eric Bogosian
Out of the Bunker
January 2, 2000.
I fell for it. I had the water, the gasoline, the canned goods stocked, a few boxes of shells, the water purification system ready. And nothing happened. Instead of the excitement of apocalypse, I was treated to Bill Clinton's pile of fragrant dogshit neatly deposited on the Washington Mall minutes before the monument lit up in all its climactic phallic glory. I switched stations, adding to the depressing exultation of the moment, the Times Square "revelers" were kept smartly in line by an equal number of menacing cops in riot gear. The TV announcers burbled sweet nothings like: "They thought there might be trouble, but it's been nice and quiet." "Nice and quiet, uh-hmmm" "No alcohol was allowed in the Square tonight." "Well maybe some of them will want to get a drink after it's over." "Only if they want to." "Of course, only if they want to."
The political correctness and good behavior of the celebrations was nauseating. Back in Washington, huge film montages of war and the depression and gee whiz! Black people. I was hoping for rare footage of frontiersmen peppering Indian babies with buckshot. (They did have the gall to show the naked crying girl running from the napalm in Vietnam. I guess it's such a great picture, who could resist?)
And presiding over all these "celebrations" grinning Guiliani and Clinton. What are they grinning about? The soaring stock market? The Internet? The scarily growing world population? The fact that it's New Year's Eve and the temperature outside is suitable for a cold night in May? A NEW WORLD ORDER?
They're grinning because they're in and most everybody else is out. They got themselves a nice warm seat when the millennial musical chairs music stopped. That can be the only reason they are grinning. They are godless, they are unspiritual, political creations presiding over a world of scary efficiency where nobody gets drunk or rowdy or anything. Where the poor get poorer every day, where the air gets dirtier, and where the rich jet from ski jump to ski jump. And no one knows how to have a good time.
Whatever. I'm just happy the current freak-out is over. Now I can get out of my bunker and go back to trying to find a way to make work. Say something. Or maybe there's just nothing to say. The corporate machine has found a way to approximate our emotions so well (in song and movies, in happy TV shows, sentimental novels and rebel anthems) that there's no need for any of my Armenian sourball emotion.
And to be honest I feel stupid. I know I'm a grousing shit who has no right to grouse. Just shut up and make the work, dude (which by the way, is the reason I haven't written here for awhile, been too busy writing piles and piles of pages. Too many pages to be good). So I feel stupid because the only yardstick is getting one's name in the news or making tons of money. Haven't done either lately. And I know myself well enough to know that if I were doing either, I'd be really happy about it and would think that anyone who was grousing the way I am now was just jealous. But in the midst of measuring my life/our lives by the universal yardstick of money, there is a revolution behind it all. A revolution of the soul. Not drugs. Not canned multinational corporate "art", but soul, heart. (Am I serious? Yes.) Something that can't be bought and sold. Poetry. Love-making. Hanging out. (Like they do in Europe.) Laziness. Laughing. Wrestling with my kids. Not watching TV (canceled my cable). Dancing. Fucking. Singing. (Not listening to digital sound on headphones, real music.)Get lazy. That's my New Year's Resolution. How about you?
